


Off World

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Gen, Nudity, Re-upload, Self Harm, Suicide, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7185026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick's been in Federation Prison for 4 years. Morty's been trying to get into space. Earth has gone down the shitter and the Federation doesn't care. Surely Rick and Morty could save it, but after such a long time, are they still the Rickest Rick and the Mortiest Morty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A RE-UPLOAD. I deleted my old account for personal reasons, and am re-uploading this story. Follow me on Tumblr at http://coloursparrowfanfic.tumblr.com for excerpts and random chitter-chatter as I try and write this monster.

"What are you in for?"

"Everything."

 

* * *

 

  
Prison was not like Rick remembered it. Of course, he'd never actually been in a Federation prison before. He'd been to one on the outskirts of the Digden Dimension, and that had been a lot more like Earths; cells, a mess hall, free time, the whole shebang. Another he had been to, in that dimension where everyone loved country songs and wore cowboy outfits, had had an old western-style prison complete with dust, rats, and banjo music. Rick wished he were in either of those prisons right now.   


The Federation doesn't mess around with their "justice system." Full body restraints, robotic wardens to minimize social contact, and intravenous feedings were just the tip of the iceberg. Rick, intensely sober and extremely stiff, strapped in a Jesus-on-the-cross position, waited with a bored sort of intensity for the next step with a forced sort of stoicism.

After months of being strapped up, no face-to-face interaction with a single living being, and not a single drop of liquor, Rick was ready to put a bullet between his eyes, if he had had access to his gun, or, you know, could move his arms more than five millimetres. He had been sure that they'd start torturing him for information by now, he was Rick Sanchez after all: the most wanted criminal in basically all dimensions. He hadn’t expected them to take their sweet time, there were billions of other Ricks other there causing mayhem in trillions of other universes.

But they didn't. A year of hanging against a metal slab. A year’s silence only broken by the mechanical whooshing of robots going about their business. He'd stopped trying to talk to them after the first week, they obviously weren't as intelligent as the ones he'd created. Of course they weren't, he hadn't made them after all. But still, the silence and the isolation and the sobriety had been almost too much for him three months in, and after a year he was practically broken. The thought of eternity in this perpetual, suspended state almost drove him to madness.

Almost, but not quite. When they finally came for him after two years of complete nothing he wasn't going without a fight. His body was jelly, his core soft and mushy and without any chance of supporting him. The best he could manage was a searing sneer and a sloppy middle finger. The robots didn't care, but Rick felt a little better sticking it to the man. They dragged him into a cold, sterile room with one metal chair in the center. They strapped him in, more to keep him upright than to keep him stationary, and left. Metal bands closed over his legs, arms, middle and forehead, keeping his posture ridged. Rick looked around the room, his neck one of the only muscles that still worked pretty well, and was annoyed to see that it was empty, save him. No cameras, fluorescent light panels flush with the ceiling, and most importantly, nothing he could secret away to help him escape.

It might have been hours, or days that Rick sat there. He was hungry —they weren't feeding him in here— and he was sore, his body not used to this new position. Still he didn't make a sound or move a muscle, he knew they were watching him, waiting for him to break. He was motherfucking Rick Sanchez; he didn't break for a little discomfort.

Just as Rick was getting fed up with the whole situation the door clicked open and a tall, young woman walked in. She looked human, maybe mid 40's with greying brown hair and dark eyes. Her face was stern, emotionless. Rick figured he was finally dealing with someone in charge.

"T-t-took you f-f-ucking bureaucrats long enough," he tried to jibe, but his voice sounded like a rusty tractor tread. It was probably the first time in months that he’d spoken. Rick grimaced and tried again. "Wh-what, d-d-d-did you l-lose my fuckin' p-paperwork or some shit?”

The woman eyed Rick with an obvious look of disgust as she came to stand in front of him. While strapped to the low sitting chair she towered over him.

"Rick Sanchez, terrorist, wanted for multiple crimes against the Federation and its people," the first words out of her mouth were cold, detached, though her eyes showed a surprising, excited light, "you have been sentenced to life imprisonment in this top-security detainment facility, and are being housed in our maximum security wing. Do you understand what this means, Mr. Sanchez?"

Rick tried his best to look bored. "Yeah t-that you dipshits keep me locked up and ha-h-have robots wipe my fuckin' ass and shit yeah?"

The woman took another step forward and leaned into Rick’s face, so close that he could smell her nasty, overpowering perfume. "No, Mr. Sanchez. It means that you're dead. You do not exist anymore. You have no rights here. You are a ghost, and the Federation does not have any regulations on the humane treatment of ghosts," she whispered to him, a sneer stretching across her lipsticked mouth as the, albeit limited, color drained from his face. Rick said nothing.

"Good, it seems we understand each other then." The woman straightened and turned her back to Rick, opening a suitcase that he hadn't noticed she’d brought in with her. The case clicking open was a deafening sound.

This was it; Rick had been waiting for this moment for a two years. They were going to torture him, ask him about the Counsel of Ricks, his research, all that stupid shit. And he wasn't going to tell them anything. He'd been through the whole shebang before; there was nothing they could do to him that would make him talk. But still, Rick felt a small sliver of anxiety prickly through his empty stomach at what the woman had said before. He crushed it before it could turn into an actual emotional response. No, he had this; this was just another page in his crazy, fucked up adventure.

"D-d-do your worst Federation f-f-fuck. Ask m-me whatever, you aren't g-getting shit from me."

She turned back to him, a variety of different instruments, most of which Rick could only guess as to their use, and smiled a lifeless, chilling smile.

"Oh but Mr. Sanchez, the Federation already has everything we need from you. We don't have any more questions, you've already answered them all, right here in this room."

"The fuck are you talking about lady, I-I-I've never seen this room in my life. You're fuckin' nuts." Rick felt that icy shard stab against his insides again.

"Of course you have, we've brought you in almost every day since you arrived Mr. Sanchez. You put up a good fight for a few weeks, but we broke you eventually, as expected. You can't even remember what we did, what you told us." She was practically laughing now.

  
"You're a f-f-fucking liar, a Federation pisswad who's trying to get into my head. W-well fuck you lady, ain't no one breaking me." Rick was getting desperate. He had a feeling, deep down, that she wasn't lying. The more she told him the more tiny flashes of memories —him screaming, her laughing, him on the floor of this room, her above him— flashed in front of his eyes.   


"We know about the Counsel of Ricks and about how your portal device works. In fact, we already have our own ship-sized prototype in the works. We know everything Mr. Sanchez, and it all came directly from you." She busied herself with one of the sharp instruments she'd taken out. "But no matter, we wouldn't want to break our little daily tradition do we? Maybe there's something left you haven’t told us, thought I find that unlikely." She dipped down beside his chair and methodically inserted a needle into his right inner elbow. Rick noticed track marks that he didn't think he put there. She pushed the plunger on his IV and his world shattered into hot pain.

"Now, Mr. Sanchez, lets begin."

 

* * *

 

  
Morty Smith was celebrating his 17th birthday with a bottle of whisky and a night in the garage. Not an unusual set of circumstances, but he had splurged and gotten the good stuff; you only turn 17 once. His mom and dad were already in bed. Mom had cooked him his favorite dinner, steak and potatoes, and his dad had given him a new screwdriver set (not like he didn't have access to just about any tool already). His sister Summer hadn't gotten him anything, but that was because she was too busy with her new job at the tourist station to even notice it was his birthday. Morty didn't mind though, birthdays were pointless, just another marker meaning you're one year closer to being dead.   


"H-happy fucking Birthday Morty," he toasts himself before taking a long pull straight from the bottle. The quality liquor burns on its way down and he chokes a bit. He isn't quite the seasoned drinker he'd like to be. Wiping his mouth he picks up his tools and heads over to the cluttered desk sitting off in the corner; there's work to be done.

Three years ago the Federation arrested Morty’s Grandpa Rick. Three years ago the Federation announced that the galactic terrorist known as Rick Sanchez had been caught and dealt with, then never mentioned him again. Not a word, not a peep, it was like Rick had disappeared from the face of the Universe, leaving the Smiths to deal with the empty space he'd left in their lives. It took a year for Beth to admit her father was probably dead. Jerry, though he didn't ever really like Rick, agreed with her and urged her to move on. Even Summer, who was almost as close to Rick as Morty, finally broke down and admitted she didn't think the Federation would keep a dangerous terrorist alive for three years.

Morty was the last one. Morty knew Rick was alive, couldn't believe that Rick would just up and die on him like that. And, after all, the Council of Ricks hadn't come to assign him to a new Rick yet, so that mean that his Rick must still be alive somewhere.

"Federation assholes... t-taking over Earth an-an-and turning it into a shithole. Fuck them, you know?" Morty muttered to himself as he slumped over the project he was working on, a small engine. "They c-can all choke on their fancy, a-alien tech for all I care."

Three years was a long time, and it showed on Morty's tired face. The Earth wasn't the same anymore, not since it was turned into a tourist trap. 'Come see the newest addition to the Federation, the Human! Feast your eyes on their pre-warp spaceships and greasy, murder-food', that's the pitch the Federation was using, and it was working. As soon and the Smith’s had arrived back home, sans Rick, they'd noticed the new alien technology and visitors that littered every street corner. Even their small suburb was full to the brim with propaganda and aliens with camera-like devices, peering through windows to snoop on family dinners.

Morty hated it. He couldn't deal with seeing all these aliens on his home planet. They were supposed to be out there, in the galaxy, where he could discover them with Rick. Instead they poured through the tourist centers, rude and loud, abusing his poor human sister who, with only an Earth high school degree, had a job as a baggage checker. He set down his tools and pushed away from the desk and leaned his head against the plushy backing of his chair. Earth was fucked, and Morty wanted off-planet, badly.

The problem was, he was Rick Sanchez's grandson. There was no way customs were going to let him off-world, Morty had tried before. He was blacklisted, grounded, stuck, at least when it came to legal travel. Taking another pull from the whiskey he gazed at the lumpy, almost finished spaceship in the middle of his garage. He was taking a huge risk. If the Federation found out he, and his family, would get a one-way ticket to wherever the hell they'd taken Rick, or worse. And though getting closer to Rick sounded great, being in prison was not on Morty's to-do list. So he kept going to school, kept acting normal, even around his family. They knew he was up to something, but didn’t ask.

Morty had basically started from scratch. It had taken him at least a year and a half to even come up with the plans, and they had been sketchy at best. He was still a Morty, and Morty's were only useful because they were so dumb. But this Morty was the Mortiest Morty, and he decided that he would get off planet and rescue Rick, even if it took years. Getting the parts was easier than he'd expected, all he had to do was hang around the seediest parts of town and name-drop his grandpa and he collected contacts like Pokémon Cards. He could get whatever he needed, from kalaxian crystals, to plated heat-shields. It hadn't been too hard after that.

Morty wished he was smarter, and that he could build a ship faster. But between school, his family, and his burgeoning alcohol problem, Morty was just barely hanging on as it was. He didn't ever let himself go too far, he had to save Rick after all, but he couldn't count the time he'd gone to bed hammered at 5 A.M. only to wake up for school at 7, still drunk. Luckily for him school was a joke now, more of a sideshow for the alien tourists than an actual learning experience. Everyone was assigned a position in the workforce after all, and humans were usually given the shittiest jobs.

Sighing, Morty pulls himself back to the desk and puts the whisky down. This engine was giving him some problems, and for the millionth time he wished that Rick was there to call him an idiot and snatch the invention out of his hands. This thought steeled his resolve even more. Morty was going to get out into space, and he was going to find Rick. He didn't quite know how, but he knew there was nothing left for him on here.


	2. Chapter 2

"G-God dammit!" Morty shouted, pulling at his messy, tufty hair. This engine was going to be the death of him. Three months on one part, he couldn't afford to take that long. But he was just a kid, a human kid, and he wasn't as smart as Rick.

"Is everything O.K. in there sweaty?" Beth’s voice drifted in from the other side of the garage door. She wouldn't come inside, Morty knew, but he'd caught her waiting just outside for him more than once. At least she still cared.

"Y-yeah mom, jus-just dropped something. No big deal."

Morty heard his mom sigh from the other side of the door. She knew he was lying. "Alright Morty, but come out of there soon please, Summer's going to be home for dinner." It was a silent plea, 'please let us just be a family', 'and please let's just pretend everything’s normal again'. Morty looked down at his half completed project.

"S-ure mom, I guess I have some free time, I-I- mean..." Morty couldn't tell her what he was really doing, it was too dangerous.

"Great Morty, I'll call you when we're ready." He heard Beth’s footsteps lead away from the door and he let out a breath he'd been holding. Really, he didn't have time for family dinners and idle chitchat, but in some ways he needed this. He needed to pretend everything was normal, like before he came.

The engine though, would require another few weeks of late nights and drowsy days. If only he was smarter, if only he wasn't "as dumb as they come." He didn't have any education in engineering or science; he was running blind here. The Federation had taken everything of Rick’s when they'd announced his arrest, so Morty didn't even have any old blueprints to work off of. This was literally rocket science, and he didn't even have a high school diploma.

"What would Rick do?" Morty wondered out loud. His gaze shifted to the nearly empty bottle of whisky at the corner of his desk.

"No, Morty, not like that. Like, what would Rick do to speed this up?" Morty was getting worried that all this talking to himself was showing his mental state. "Li-like he'd probably have contacts, or someone to hook him up with what he needed." Morty had contacts, they'd gotten him all the illegal shit he needed to build this damn thing, but none of them were rocket scientists. He couldn't even contact any of Rick's old friends; he had nothing.

Realization hit Morty like a tonne of bricks. Why didn't he just build an intergalactic transmitter and get into contact with some of them, like Squanchy or Bird –well, maybe Squanchy could help anyways. It should be just like building a radio, only bigger and with more channels. Surely someone on Earth had all the parts he'd need. He rocketed out of his chair and grabbed his coat and phone. He could go out and get all the parts now, and have the thing built by the end of the week. Then he could-

"Morty, dinner's in five minutes!" Beth called. Morty winced; he'd forgotten his family.

"I-I-I changed my mind mom, too much school work a-and stuff. I'll eat later," he shouted, feeling red-hot shame creep into his cheeks. It’s was for the best; he needed to distance himself from them as much as possible anyways.

Morty didn't stick around to hear his mom’s response. Instead he popped the garage door open and got on his bike, to head downtown. By now he knew all the best places to buy and sell, or in his case, scrounge and beg. He'd figured out pretty early on that he could get stuff for free by bad-mouthing the Federation; they weren't exactly the most popular bunch. And free way good, since Morty was flat broke and he couldn't ask his family for money for illegal invention parts.

Reaching the downtown core Morty jumped off his bike and locked it to a bike stand. He said a silent prayer to a God he didn't believe in that his bike would still be there when he got back, but if it wasn't he could just build a new one… again. He was getting pretty handy with that sort of stuff. He then headed into one of the bars he knew never checked I.D.'s and sat at a booth.

"Well if it isn't little Morty... what can I get for you kid?" a large, gelatinous alien with at least six arms asked him. Morty was a regular here.

"How about some water, Morgo, I’m doing business tonight." The drinking could start later, after he had everything he was looking for. Unlike Rick, Morty liked to stay sober for the important stuff.

* * *

The night was almost over, and Morty was more than a little sauced. He'd met up with one of his contacts, a Platian named Shanks, a little after midnight. Shanks had been able to hook him up with not just the parts for an intergalactic transmitter, but a premade one all ready to go. Morty offered to pay the reptilian alien back, but the guy refused.

"Nah man, keep your money. You just tell Rick we're square for that time down in Rusto. He'll know what I mean," Morty was familiar with this line of conversation, so he thanks the guy and bought a round instead. That had led to a night of drinking and celebrating, though what they were celebrating no one was quite sure.

The sun was practically coming up when Morty weavingly made his way back on his bike –which luckily hadn't been stolen- and lifted the garage door. Everything was as he'd left it, spaceship covered, desk littered with nonsense machinery. He plopped the transmitter in a drawer and headed inside the house, trying to be quiet but failing quite miserably in his drunken state.

"Morty, is that you?" Summer was up and getting ready for work, Morty thought. If he could just make it up the stairs maybe she wouldn't see-

"Are you fucking drunk Morty?" Well, he was screwed. There was no talking himself out of this one.

"N-no Summmmer, I jus' stayed up too late. I'm, I'm gonna go up to bed and ship shool, I-I mean skip school," he answered, trying to focus on the wobbly vision that was his sister. He hoped that she'd believe him, that maybe she'd cover for him with mom and dad. She'd done it before, when they'd been out with Rick and Morty had needed a break, things weren't so different now right?

Summer sighed heavily and walked back into the kitchen. Morty took a chance and ran up the stairs clumsily. Dashing past this parents room he dove through his doorway and slammed it shut. He was safe.

Skipping school sounded like a good idea to Drunk Morty, so he stripped off his dirty clothes with as little falling as possible and slid into his perfectly made bed. His mom must have cleaned up again since he never did it himself. Just as the room stopped spinning enough for his to doze off Summer knocked the door open and walked straight in.

“Ugh Summer go ‘way, I’m sleepin’,” he grumbled. Instead of listening to him though she dropped a water bottle and a granola bar on his stomach then leaned back on her heels. Morty cracked an eye open and saw her looking down at him with a weird expression.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing Morty. Well, not exactly what you’ve been doing, but like, I know you’ve been messing with some dangerous shit.” Summer looked away from him and to the window over the backyard where two grown-over grassy lumps lay. “Just… be careful Morty. We can’t lose you too.” She left his room with a soft click of the doorknob latching. Marty heard her speak to his mother in the hallway, and tell her that he was sick and needed a day off. He took a long swig of the water and laid the granola bar on his nightstand. Yeah, thing’s hadn’t changed that much.

* * *

The transmitter was set up and ready to activate, all Morty needed to do was flick the power switch. His stomach twisted with anticipation. He’d waited all week to do this; he’d had to make sure he knew what he was doing. Morty might have been an idiot but he knew better than to get on an intergalactic frequency and start broadcasting without a plan.

It’d taken a while but he finally figured out how he was going to try and contact some of Ricks old allies.

“O-O.K. Morty, here goes nothing I guess.” He flicked the switch and got close to the microphone.

“A-ah um testing, one-two- um,” he imagined his voice being broadcast all over the Milky Way and beyond. The thought was a little intimidating, so he didn’t think about it too hard. The dials on the transmitter were showing activity, so he assumed that everything was working. Reaching beside him Morty tapped a button on his dad’s old electronic recorder –which he had borrowed without asking—and started his premade message.

“Wub-a-lub-a-dub-dub… School isn’t a place for smart people… Don’t even trip dawg…” The recording went on and on, repeating Rick’s words in a weird, distorted version of Morty’s own voice. He had been lucky his dad had gone through that music production phase, all the equipment he needed was in the basement.

“Th-there,” Morty whispered, backing out of his bedroom and placed a ‘DO NOT OPEN’ sign on the door. “Someone should hear that and figure it out… maybe.”

“Morty? What are you doing up here, shouldn’t you be in class?” Jerry asked. Morty usually tried to avoid his dad at all costs, but they did share a house.

“I-I know Dad, but I’m still feeling a bit sick, you know? I thought that, maybe, I don’t know, I should stay home until I’m feeling 100%, you know?” Morty crossed his fingers behind his back; please let his dad be dumb enough to fall for this, please…

Jerry looked sceptical for a moment, but quickly brushed off any concerns. “Well O.K. the son, but make sure you get some rest. Can’t having you missing any more classes now can we?”

“N-no Dad, I will Dad,” Morty darted around his father and down the stairs. He knew Jerry meant well, but he really wished that his dad would stop bugging him about school. School was a joke now.

He made it down the stairs and into the kitchen without any further incidents. His mom was probably at work –it turns out that horse heart surgeons were in high demand on this new, alien Earth— and Summer had left hours ago. He opened the fridge to see it almost entirely empty and sighed. His family was just too scattered all over the place to keep up with things like shopping and chores.

“See you later Morty, I’m off to work!” Jerry called from the front room. Morty waved a hand through the archway to the living room and closed the fridge. Maybe he’d order a pizza or something. If anywhere around here even sold human pizza anymore, most places had fully embraced the alien market.

Sighing for what felt like the millionth time, Morty resigned himself to walking to the store. Not really what he had planned for today, but maybe getting out of the house while that thing was working was the best plan, mentally speaking. So he slammed the fridge, found his shoes, and headed out the door towards to the nearest supermarket.

Morty did a lot of walking these days. He never had gotten around to getting his license, and Summer was too busy, so he really had no other option. Three years ago he wouldn’t have minded, but now everything was so foreign, so alien, and he hated having to see first-hand how much his neighborhood had changed. The park where he’d played alone as a kid was now a dirt lot filled with billboards advertising in languages he didn’t understand. His once quite street flowed heavily with alien cars. Everything was different.

It only took twenty minutes to get to the grocery store Morty and his family usually visited. This place luckily wasn’t too off the rails. Aside from some new alien foodstuffs everything was pretty much what you could except from a suburban grocery store. Grabbing a cart Morty made his way up and down the aisles, stopping rarely to throw something in the cart. He wasn’t picky. Bread, eggs, lunchmeat, cereal and milk, some boxed pizza, Morty didn’t really care. He was sure someone would go out shopping for real food eventually and until then he needed simple stuff to keep him going.

“That’ll be 43 Flurbo’s,” the human cashier said, and Morty handed him his intergalactic bankcard. He used it to transfer human dollars to basically any other type of currency, and it came in handy. “Thank you for shopping at Fast Mart, have a good day.”

“Y-you to,” Morty mumbled out as he picked up his bags. He hadn’t brought a buggy with him, so he’d have to balance them all.

He hustled out of the store quickly, walking swiftly down the road. The intense anticipation of getting home and seeing if anyone had tried to contact him was building with each step. Sure, the transmitter had only been on for a few hours but a boy could hope right?

“W-w-woah!” Morty’s shoe caught a crack in the sidewalk and he tumbled forward, his groceries flying all over the pavement. He heard the bottle of soda he’d bought start to fizz and pop on contact with the hard ground. Tiredly, he dusted himself off and reloaded the bags. The soda was ruined, and the pizza was probably all messed up, but otherwise everything other than his scraped knees was O.K.

It took at least double the time to get home with his the groceries. He didn’t bother going in through he front door, instead he unloaded everything into the mini-fridge in the garage so his family wouldn’t end up eating all his stuff. If they wanted anything, they’d have to go out and get it.

Morty’s stomach grumbled, but he was too excited to think about food, so instead he ran into the house and up to his room. He flung the door open and dropped down beside the transmitter and checked all the panels. Two hundred transmissions outputted, 10,578 received. Morty was shocked for a moment before he realized he’d forgotten to set up a filter, and had probably received every message sent on intergalactic radio for the past three hours. He groaned. He had a lot of work to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

What Rick had learned in three years of incarceration, was that time was a bitch.

Every second, every minutes oozed by with the casual pace of a snail on heroin. Each hour was nothing more than a drop in the bucket of eternity.

At least, they would have been if he'd had any way of telling time. The only way he knew a day had gone buy is if the robots came to collect him for their daily interrogation sessions, and even then he couldn't be sure how long or short the interim time was. The only time he ever had a concrete understanding of time was when that brown haired chick told him something.

"Oh, it looks like you'll be missing Christmas again this year Mr. Sanchez, such a shame."

"Your granddaughter’s graduating this year right? Too bad you won't make it to the graduation."

"Oops, it seems we missed your birthday. Well, there's always next year, right Mr. Sanchez?"

She liked to get under his skin in any way possible, every single day they met. He knew it was almost every day now, she'd told him, but he still couldn't remember what'd happened most of the times when he was in that room. Rick thought that maybe that was for the best anyways.

In the three years he hadn't seen anyone other than the brown haired woman and the robots who tended to him. On his first day he'd been locked up in a gigantic room with all the other prisoners, but they'd quickly transferred him to his own private hell soon after. Since that time it had just been her and him.

He could vaguely remember one of the first times he'd been interrogated, how he'd joked and raged and screamed. He'd tried to fight back, despite being restrained, and had managed to spit in her face at least once. He'd only remembered that because yesterday (maybe) she'd spit in his and jeered,

"Do onto others as you would have them do onto you Mr. Sanchez."

Rick still tried to piss her off whenever he could. Sure his muscles had atrophied beyond what he had thought possible and his voice had been reduced to little more than a raspy whisper. Sure he only slept in short, minute-long intervals before jolting awake expecting to be tortured. Sure he hadn't been given more than the bare minimum amount of sustenance to keep him alive in thee years. That wouldn't stop him from fighting back whenever he could. Fuck the Federation.

Yesterday (maybe?) she'd told him it had been exactly three years since he was brought in. He hadn't made a comment then, but considering the circumstance he'd been thinking about that day a lot more than normal. Rick remembered Morty's face when he said Beth wouldn't be able to handle him leaving again, he remembered calling the galactic police, he remembered his last shot of scotch before they'd picked him up.

His last days of freedom played over and over in his mind. Bird Person was dead, killed by that bitch Tammy. Severed the idiot right, Rick though, he'd always tried to warn Bird away from getting married. Women always ruined everything. And Squanchy, was he till alive? Rick hadn't seen him go so he couldn’t' be sure. It'd be nice if both those assholes hadn’t kicked the bucket.

Rick didn’t like dwelling in the past, but today he just couldn’t shake the feeling of nostalgia that had washed over him. “W-what I wouldn’t g-g-give for a fuck-fucking drink,” he rasped to himself.

“Prisoner 137-65, remain silent or face punishment,” one of the robotic guards droned. A year ago Rick would have had a witty comeback, but he’d learned his lesson now; he shut up.

A drink, a gun, Rick would have paid any price to have just about anything to liven up his days. Day in, day out there was nothing to do, his mind felt like it was as atrophied as his muscles. He’d already counted every light in the maximum-security area (124,837), and how many metal panels were on the walls (857,350). He’d tried meditating –though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked- but the position his straps kept him in made getting comfortable impossible. Sleeping could offer a little relief, but the guard robots seemed to be programed to only let him get an hour at most before poking him awake. In short, Rick was going absolutely batty with boredom.

He almost looked forward to the daily (maybe?) sessions with brown-haired bitch, if only for the short distractions that they gave him; almost, but not quite. Rick prided himself on his resilience to torture and his high pain tolerance, but whatever she was doing to him was something else. According to her they’d gotten him to answer all sorts of questions and he didn’t remember a thing. Rick didn’t really like to think about that.

“Prisoner 137-65, prepare for transportation.” Oh, it was that time again. Rick didn’t say anything as they unstrapped him and repositioned him on a gurney. The pain was substantial; his back felt like it was being torn in half.

Once in the room again the robots set him up in the chair. Rick hardly paid any attention, it was all routine now. They left and he waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. Usually she’d keep him waiting a few hours, a day tops, but it felt like he’d been sitting for much longer. He was starving, exhausted, and cranky. His dark stare was fixed on the closed door. Finally it slammed open and the bitch walked in.

“J-Jesus C-Christ, I almost fuckin’ st-starved in here you b-b-bitch,” Rick growled, pissed off. He followed her form with his glare as she strode into the room and stood in front of him and unlocked her ever-present suitcase. She was acting differently, her mask of indifference slipping into one of annoyance and… fear? It was off-putting.

“B-bad day a-at work?” he was goading her, trying to get a reaction, trying to get back into their routine. She stayed silent as she slid a needle into his arm and pushed the plunger. Rick instantly felt dizzy, which was out of place, as usually by this point he was almost blacking out from the pain.

“Wha’ tha’ fuck?” he slurred, the room spinning. The woman removed the needle and straightened her back, watching him for a moment before acting. Rick felt more than saw the sudden punch to his stomach. This was new. This was unexpected.

The clicking of metal could be heard as the woman undid his restraints and let him slide face-first onto the floor. Kick after kick came in swift succession, each one landing between his 5th and 6th ribs. One knocked him over onto his left side, and the brutal hits shifted to his face and stomach.

She didn’t stop until he was a wheezing, semi-conscious heap of blood and bruises. Her brown hair, usually held back neatly behind a band, was escaping and swirling around her face. Her usually emotionless eyes burned with anger. Without a word she swooped out of the room, the two guard robots coming to collect him and set him, none too gently, on the gurney. Rick groaned, but couldn’t manage anything else. The roboguards pushed him out of the room and down the corridor as he lost consciousness.

* * *

 

  
When he came-to, three things were abundantly clear.

\- Every part of his body hurt in ways that, even with an understanding of dozens of alien languages, couldn’t be described  
\- He was not strapped into anything and was instead laying in an extremely uncomfortable prone position  
\- It was dark

  
This was the first time in three years that Rick had been anywhere other than the maximum security wing, the hallway, or the interrogation room, and he was finding that this wasn’t really a welcome change.

Everything was cold and dark and metallic. There wasn’t even a sliver of light where a door might be. Rick couldn’t remember the last time he’d been anywhere that didn’t have bright fluorescent lights on 24/7. In any other circumstance this might be nice, considering he had a headache that rivalled any hangover he’d ever had, and each breath in and out felt like a knife going through his abdomen.

Realizing that there wasn’t really much he could do in this situation, Rick gave up trying to do anything. Maybe three years ago he might have seen this as an opportunity to escape, but by now he knew they weren’t going to leave him somewhere where he had any chance of getting out. So instead he closed his eyes and tried to process what was going on.

He’d always known that if the Federation got ahold of him, there’d be torture. Heck, this wasn’t even the first time he had been tortured, so he hadn’t been too concerned with that. The mind games had thrown him off though, and not remembering big chunks of the past three years had really irked him. There were things Rick would rather forget, but he didn’t like not having control over the process. And then there were recent changes in the routine that had been going on since he arrived. That bitch hadn’t had any goals for drugging him and beating the shit out of him, she’d just wanted to do it. Rick felt rage boil inside him.

“The h-hell is going on in this damn-this damn place,” he stuttered into the darkness. He hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t had a drink in just as long. If they were trying to kill him, they were on the right track. Thoughts drifted in and out of his head, concentration something that seemed impossible to grasp. The darkness seemed endless, and intimidating. “Shit, this i-is bad.”

Again, in what was becoming far too often, Rick felt afraid. He didn’t want to go out starved to death in a dark room, beaten within inches of his life. He didn’t want to go out on anyone else’s terms, he wanted to do things his way. But he’d given up that right when he’d given himself to the Federation, when he’d given up everything to keep his family safe.

“Fuckin’ wedding, fuckin’ Morty and his “support your friends” bullshit. L-l-look where that g-g-got me fucker.” Rick found himself talking out loud now that there were no guard bots to shut him up. “I-I hope they’re all-they’re all miserable, all of them. Jerry. Morty. Summer. B-Beth,” he stuttered over his daughter’s name. Small pinpricks of guilt and loneliness started in his chest. Usually he’d try to push those feelings away, if only for his own sanity, but he was too tired now.

He was getting old, he realized. No, he was old, and in jail, and alone, and he was going to die here in a pitch-black room. He’d never go on any more adventures, never invent anything else, never eat breakfast with his family ever again. There was no escape, there was no future. This was it, the end of Rick C-137, really just a tiny spec of dust in the eye of the universe. He felt something come loose inside his chest and his face felt wet. His chest was tight and he couldn’t breathe.

He blacked out.

* * *

 

  
“It looks like the injection has had the expected effects Sir. 137-65 is barely functional, I’m surprised he didn’t die from the trauma you inflicted,” her assistant, a young turtle-esque female noted. They were looking through the night-vision cameras that kept track of prisoners in the dark room. On the screen prisoner 137-65 was having a panic attack and looked on the verge of passing out.

“Make a note of the duration of the effects, as well as if any long-term side effects are visible. I want him compliant, not dead or mentally deficient. We still have tests to run and this iteration seems to be very receptive to our experiments,” she replied, eyes glued to the screen. She swept her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear and past the commander's stripes detailing her uniform.

“We will break you yet, Rick Sanchez of Earth dimension C-137.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

10,578 was a much larger number than Morty expected. Especially when he had to go through each and every one with a fine toothcomb. There could have been a secret message hidden in any one of them, so he listened to each beginning to end, even if they were repeats.

“The plumbus is a necessary item in any home…”

“So come on down to Little Bits….”

Most of the time it was the same advertisements over and over, interspersed with the occasional inter-dimensional trucker channel. Federation broadcasts took up a good amount of space as well, but most of them were in a code that Morty couldn’t understand. He made sure to keep a recorded copy of each of those, just in case he cold ever translate them.

Surprisingly, most of the transmissions were in English, or some close variation. Morty had never really thought of it before, but most of the alien species he’d met while on adventures with Rick had known at least a little English. Weird that it’d be an intergalactic language when he and Rick were really the only two humans to explore the galaxy.

The downstairs door knocked open and Morty heard the sound of bags being set on the floor; must have been Mom since Dad never did the groceries. He knew that he should go downstairs and help put them away, but he really wanted to keep going with the messages…

The sounds of more fumbling bags made its way under Morty’s door and he felt more guilt creep up. He’d been treating his family like crap for a long time, trying to distance himself from them, but they were still important to him. He just thought it would be better for when he finally left, when he finished his ship.

Making up his mind he hid the transmitter in his closet and stashed his notes under  
a pillow and run down the stairs.

* * *

 

Beth Smith was tiredly unloading groceries in the kitchen when she heard her son traipse down the stairs. The sound surprised her; normally Morty hid in his room or the garage 24/7. She didn’t blame him though; no one in this family was coping well with her Dad’s disappearance.

“H-hey mom, di-did you need a hand?” Morty asks, eyeing the half emptied bags on the counter. Packages of raw meat and bags of veggies were sitting out, warming in the kitchen air.

“Sure sweaty, why don’t you get the stuff that goes in the freezer, and I’ll do the dry goods,” Beth suggests. Morty doesn’t answer but he nods and starts unloading bags.

“I di-didn’t know you were going shopping, so I, so I picked up some snacks. They’re in the, I put them in the garage fridge.” Beth is surprised to hear Morty left the house, but doesn’t want to break this new, more social mood he’s in, so she nods.

“That’s alright Morty, you can keep those in there for at night when you’re—“ she cuts herself short. “When you’re up working.”

There was a pregnant pause between them. Wanting so badly to cling to this normalcy they’d created Beth changed the subject.

“So what do you want for dinner honey? I was thinking we could have a good old-fashioned roast chicken with some baked potatoes. Does that sound good?” She looked back at her son who was now gathering up the grocery bags and stuffing them in the closet, purposefully not looking at her.

“Y-yeah mom sounds good. J-just give me a call when it’s—when dinner’s ready ok? He’s already edging out the kitchen door, his gaze averted. In that moment Beth thinks he looks so much like her Dad, always avoiding, always placating. He’s back upstairs before she can answer. Instead she turns back to the stove and steels herself for preparing dinner.

* * *

  
Weeks passed without so much as a single hint from Morty’s transmitter. Sure, it picked up everything under the sun (several suns actually), but nothing of importance. He just had to hope that his message was getting out there and at least doing something.

“God d—dammit.” He kicked the machine on its side and stomped out of his room. The thing wasn’t fucking working; it’d all been a waste of time. It would have been better to just keep going with the engine; maybe he might have gotten lucky. Instead he’d wasted weeks with this stupid thing and he’d gotten nothing, diddlysquat.

Morty got to the top of the stairs and realized that the house was dark and that his family was nowhere to be seen. Pulling out his phone and swiping through the lock screen he realized it was 3 in the morning and that’d he’d spent an entire day and night in his room. He mentally readjusted the date in his mind and quietly headed to the garage. Silently opening and closing the door behind him he slipped over to his mini-fridge and pulled out a nondescript bottle of clear alcohol. He unscrewed the lid and took a slow gulp.

Eying the spaceship under its throw cover Morty shrugged to himself. “M-m-might as well g-get back to this piece of sh-shit. M-maybe I’ll get lucky.” He clumsily began pulling the cover off, snagging it on every possible corner. It took a good ten minutes of struggling, though the alcohol he kept downing wasn’t at all helpful.

Laying out a few tools Morty settled himself under the engine and begin to tinker. Not having any idea what he was doing it was slow going. Outside the garage the neighborhood was extremely quiet, especially since all the dogs had gone to another dimension. The hum of the street lights and the occasional rattle of a car were the only things to cut the silence. Morty worked in similarly quiet conditions, choosing peace and quiet over the loud, banging explosions preferred by his grandfather.

Hours passed and the sun was peaking over the tops of suburban houses and underneath the garage door. Morty ignored it, knowing that there wasn’t even really a point of him attending classes at this point. He was totally in the zone, focused entirely on the parts underneath his hands, but not so focused that he didn’t notice the sudden loud banging on the garage door. Morty jumped at the first bang, smacking his forehead against the spaceships front bumper.

“Motherfucker!” he screamed through his teeth. Bringing a grease-covered hand up to his forehead he was happy not to feel any blood. The banging continued, and a reedy voice could be heard between each thump.

“..in’ open the damn door!” Morty grabbed a blaster he’d thrown together after the last time he’d gotten into a bad scrap and quickly flicked the garage door opener. The garage was slowly illuminated with sunlight, and Morty could see the silhouette of child standing in the doorway.

“Wh-what the f-fuck are you d-d-doing banging on my- smashing on the garage door kid?” he griped, squinting in the newly bright room.

The silhouette quickly slid into the garage and darted behind the ship. Morty felt suspicion nagging at the edges of his drunken consciousness and raised the blaster. Squinting in the newly lit up garage he tried to identify the person, or thing, that had made its way into his house.

“Jesus you squanch-for-brains kid, put the squanchin’ gun down and close the door before those Federation squanches see me,” the figure growled. Morty blanched and dropped his blaster.

“Squanchy?” he shrilled, only to have the anthropomorphic cat run over and clap a paw over his mouth. Squanchy’s smell was substantial and Morty instantly pulled back, hitting the garage door button in the process. “W-what the hell are you d-d-doing here?”

Squanchy shot him a frustrated, frazzled look. “What am I squanchin’ doing here? You’re the one sending out that squanch all over the galaxy right?” he huffed, glancing nervously around the garage.

Calming down a bit Morty hit the lights so they weren’t staring at one another through the dim light of his workstation desk lap. Squanchy looked a lot like he had at the wedding, sans the hulking muscles and huge fangs. He was maybe a little more disheveled, maybe a little skinnier, but overall the same.

“Y-yeah that was me, b-b-but I wasn’t expecting anyone to actually come here. I-I mean the whole place—the whole plant is c-covered in Federation checkpoints.”

Squanchy shrugged. “You don’t have to squanch me about that, I caught a ride on a Fed’ ship to get here.”

Morty’s eyes widened; Federation ships were looked down tight. How had Squanchy managed to stow away on one?” B-but why? Why risk g-g-getting caught?”

The feline alien rolled his eyes. “Because when a member of Rick Sanchez’s family put out the call, you squanchin’ follow. Now, what the squanch do you need kid?”

* * *

  
As much as Morty wanted to get right into the thick of things, he knew Squanchy was probably exhausted and hungry. He offered him his rolling desk chair and a peanut butter sandwich (as a seventeen year old boy his culinary library way lacking), both of which Squanchy accepted gladly. Morty stood in silence, waiting until his acquaintance was done before launching into his story.

“So, let me get this squanch straight. You think that that bucket of squanch will get you off-planet and rescue Rick from a maximum security Federation prison?” Squanchy eyed him like he though Morty was either crazy, or the worlds biggest idiot.

“Well, y-yeah. I don’t know what else to d-do. I can’t just keep doing nothing!” Morty keened desperately. This wasn’t going how he’d planned at all, they should have been working on the engine by now.

Squanchy threw his paws up and sighed. “Don’t squanch out on me kid. I’m just being realistic here, there’s no way that thing will get you anywhere close to Federation space. Does it even squanch?”

Morty took a deep breath and an equally deep pull from the bottle he’d been nursing since Squanchy started eating. He ignored the curious look the cat shot him and strode over to the ship. “Y-yeah, well no, but it will once I-I get the engine working. I was h-hoping that whoever answered m-m-my message would be able to help.” The hood popped open with a flick of his wrist. “Know a-anything about concentrated dark matter engines Squanchy?” Morty nearly chuckled, and instead took another sip.

Hopping down from the chair with surprising grace Squanchy leapt up onto the front bumper and peered in beside Morty. “Not a lot, enough to get the old tour squanch running when Rick was to squanched to fix it. I could give it a go though.”

The kid’s heart gave a hopeful little flutter that he tried to drown with another large gulp; no sense getting too worked up with such low a low chance of success. He watched Squanchy tinker around inside the engine for a few minutes, occasionally handing him a tool from the shelf. Conversation was minimal, Squanchy focused on the engine, and Morty trying his hardest to beat his person record of being smashed before 8am.

“You know kid,” Squanchy looked up from the engine briefly, fixing Morty with a strangely sad stare, “if this thing works you’re gonna have to squanch all this behind.”

Morty nodded drunkenly, sparing a quick glance around the garage. “Nothin’ here for me, Squanchy. Hasn’t been for years.”

“Yeah but, we go squanch your grandpa out of prison and the Federation will squanch up your family.” Squanchy grunted as he tightened a bolt and slammed the hood down. “That should squanch it, give it a test kid.”

Fumbling through his pockets Morty pulled out the keys and wobbled over to the cockpit. It only took him two tries to get it in the ignition and turn the key the right direction. He held his breath as the engine sputtered and coughed. Finally, the rumbling smoothed out into a nearly silent hum; it worked.

“Squanch yeah! We got it working kid!” Squanchy jumped up in the air, clapping his hands together, looking not unlike a deranged Muppet. Morty stared in shock at the dashboard, his grip on the keys going slack.

“Turn the thing off before someone squanches us kid and get your stuff, we gotta move,” Squanchy said, jumping into the passenger seat. Morty shook himself and nodded, still surprised.

“Y-yeah, just let me get some stuff and we can get out of here,” he mumbled while climbing out the door and tossing the keys to the other. Quickly, if not gracefully, Morty made his way to the garage door, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. The transmitter was still on the floor, and he flicked it off. No sense in sending out a message when he wasn’t even going to be here. Going over his room once he packed a few things into a bag: clothes, a few gadgets, some of his favorite comic books. He was done in less than ten minutes, though he stopped in the hallway to take one of the family photos the Smith’s had lining the walls. It was from a family vacation before Rick had come back, he and Summer must have been under ten at the time. Beth and Jerry were holding hands in the background, and Morty and Summer were holding ice-cream cones, laughing.

He slipped the frame into his bag and headed back to the garage. They had to be quick if they wanted to leave before his family woke up; it’d be easier that way for all of them. He didn’t stop to look back; like he’d told Squanchy, there was nothing for him here anymore.

In the garage he hit the electric door opener again and strode over to the ship, careful to grab his blaster along the way. This was it, after 3 years, he was finally doing something. He had no regrets.

“Morty?” he heard Summer gasp behind him. He cringed.

“G-go back inside Summer. You never saw me, you never saw—didn’t see anything OK?” he tried, hoping that for once his sister would listen to him.

Summer took a few angry steps towards him, her hands on her hips. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing… is that Squanchy?” she was shouting now, getting angrier as she realized what was going on. “You’re going to get killed Morty, and for what, Rick? Don’t be a stupid kid!”

“Shut up Summer!” Morty screamed, raising the laser blaster and pointing at his sister. “I said go back in-inside!” But Summer kept moving forward. “Summer s-s-s-top or I’ll s-shoot!”

“Oh screw off Morty, you know you don’t have the balls.”

She kept moving forward, kept getting closer and closer and Morty couldn’t, no wouldn’t, let her stop him. “Summer stop! I-I-I need to do this, for me, for Rick, for everyone. J-just let me go, please Summer, please.” His voice wavered slightly, he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes that even an ocean of alcohol couldn’t suppress.

Summer’s face softened for a moment. “You know they’ll come after you, after us. You’re fucking us all Morty.”

He shook his head. “Not if you—if they find out I held y-you at gunpoint Summer. S-so just go back inside and t-tell Mom and Dad I’ve g-g-gone crazy or some shit.”

“They won’t believe me Morty, Mom and Dad, or the Federation. They’ll take us and kill you. It isn’t enough proof Morty,” she said quietly, feeling the anger leave her.

“I know. I’m sorry Summer, goodbye.” Morty raised the gun to eye level and squeezed the trigger. A bright red flash and a scream followed, and Morty didn’t look back when he heard the garage door swing open, or when his parents screamed out his sisters name. Instead, he slid the keys into the ignition and took off, Squanchy silent in the passenger seat.

 

* * *

 

“So, any squanch what we’re gonna do kid?”

The young driver had been quiet since they broke Earth's atmosphere almost an hour ago. They hadn’t encountered any Federation resistance so far, most likely because the Federation thought humans were too stupid to achieve reliable space travel.

“No, n-not really Squanchy. You?” Morty didn’t take his eyes off the stars all around them, it had been 3 years since he last driven a ship and he was a little rusty.

Squanchy thought for a minute before snapping his fingers (paws?) together. “Rick had an old squanch in the Zeta sector, not too far from here but outside Federation squanch. We could check it out, set up there for a while.”

Morty didn’t answer, but he typed in the coordinated for the Zeta sector and set the engine to full thrust. He wished he’d thought to bring along some booze, but he was sure that out here in space he could find something better than Earth hooch.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

  
The first time Morty had walked through the threshold of his grandfathers old hide-out on planet Zeta-36, he was worried that he’d made a huge mistake. Cobwebs created by alien spiders coated the walls and floors. The walls were rickety and the place was drafty. Morty couldn’t image staying a night here, never mind months. The furniture that Rick had left was bare-bones at best: a few crates as chairs, a nasty-looking loveseat, two naked mattresses.

Slowly, over the next year he and Squanchy fixed the walls and the floors and patched up the roof. The warehouse section of the property was cleaned out and organized. Morty took over the house section and got some basic necessities; things like kitchen appliances and some bed sheets. By the 3rd month the place had less of a crack-den vibe going on and more of a college dorm appearance. They each had their own room, their own space, and could finally start planning Rick’s rescue.

They came up with a plan pretty quickly, but lacked the supplies to make it happen. So Morty re-opened his weapons business, now with intergalactic shipping. Business was pretty good, and he learned a lot from his alien customers; bit of languages, alien tech, Galactic Gossip. By the years end they’d scrimped and saved enough to put their plan into action.

“So how much do you know about these Federation squanches, kid?” Squanchy asked while they unloaded some scrap into the warehouse.

Morty thought for a second. “I know they’re mainly Gromflomites, a-and that they control a bunch of planets, and that they’re basically a big space government,” he answered, realizing he really knew next to nothing about his biggest enemy.

Squanchy coughed out a dry laugh. “That’s just the tip of the squanch kid. The Federation squanches any planet it wants, whether they agree of not. If Earth hadn’t squanched up its rights it would have ended up being overrun.”

“So we never had a chance then?” He’d already figured that Earth had been screwed since the beginning, but the idea wasn’t the best.

“Nah, not even a squanch kid. You were lucky the Federation ignored Earth for so long as it was.”

Morty shifted an especially heavy box to the side and grunted. It didn’t matter now, they were a long way form Earth and the Federation’s reaches. Nothing mattered except getting Rick out of prison. “Do you really think the biometric cloaker will work Squanchy? I-I mean they don’t have s-s-some sort of scanner for this sort o-of—things like t-this?”

The cat shrugged, also putting down his box. “We wont squanch for sure until we try it. Besides, you aren’t the one in any real danger.” Squanchy opened the door between the warehouse and living area and walked through, Morty at his heels. “I’m the intergalactic space terrorist, if anything I should be squanching my pants about this kid.”

“I t-told you I’m not a kid Squanchy, I-I turned eighteen months ago. How many kids do you know that can build a spaceship and a biometric cloaker with—using scrap metal?” Morty griped. The other was always treating him like he was still a whiny 14 year-old. Squanchy shrugged again and sat down at the table they’d rescued from the local dump. Papers and blueprints that they’d “acquired” littered the surface.

“I want to squanch over the plan again Morty.” Morty rolled his eyes but humored the cat. He was right, Morty himself wasn’t in that much danger in this plan.

“It’s simple Squanchy. I activate the cloaker, we dock with the prison, I take you into the prison and we split up.” The boy reached for a discarded coffee and peaked inside; the contents weren’t drinkable. “Then we split up and you cause the distraction while I get Rick.” Morty glossed over the detailed prison blueprints they’d both memorized and the form the cloaker would make him take. They both already knew about those details.

Squanchy huffed and leaned back in the chair. “And when we get him out? Bring him to this squanch and take him where? He’s not gonna be in good squanch kid, it’s been 4 years.”

Morty hadn’t really thought about it. The house, Ricks house, that they’d taken over only had two bedrooms. “I could sleep on the floor, or o-on the couch, I guess.” He thought for a moment. “It doesn’t really matter th-that much—it’s no big deal Squanchy.”

“If you squanch so kid, you’re the boss on this one.” The alien cat conceded. He had to admit that some of Rick’s planning genius had rubbed off and the kid, and it hadn’t steered them wrong so far. Just weeks after they’d reclaimed the safe house Morty had had them going out for parts for the blueprints they’d found in the warehouse. He had Squanchy contacting some of Rick’s old customers so he could start supplying them with munitions and supplies, for the right price of course. Morty and his plans had kept them alive and living relatively well for 4 years.

“You k-know it’s gonna work Squanchy, there’s no way it wont,” Morty replied, getting up and heading toward the kitchen in search of drinkable coffee. “This time tomorrow we’ll have Rick back an-and everything will be fi-fine.”

* * *

  
They headed out well before the two suns on Zeta-36 had a chance to rise above the horizon. It was still hot out, the arid heat never quite leaving overnight. Few of Zeta-36’s inhabitants were out at this time in the morning, preferring the late night to the early morning.

Still, Morty and Squanchy were on high alert. Morty was dressed in a federation patroller’s uniform, and even though he was well liked on this planet, one wrong move could ruin his reputation. Squanchy, on the other hand, was more worried about what they were getting into. Sure, he trusted Morty, but he’d spent decades avoiding the Federation, and now he was practically giving himself to them.  
Morty’s spaceship rumbled to life with a press of the wireless key fob while he and Squanchy loaded their supplies into the back seat. One laser rifle, two plasma pistols, and more than twice the cartridges they could possibly use considering Squanchy couldn’t even be armed.

“Th-that’s everything. We should get g—we should head o-out,” Morty stuttered, the confidence he showed last night draining away as the time to act approached. This would be their only shot.

Squanchy shrugged and hopped into the passenger seat of Morty’s ship. For now it looked like its normal, ramshackle self, but soon it’d be cloaked to look like a Federation scout ship. The inside was rife with wrappers, junk, and spare bits and bobs. Neither he nor Morty were big on keeping things clean.

“And a-way we go!” Morty drawled, trying, in his nervousness, to imitate his grandpa. He pushed up on the throttle and they sped away, quickly breaching the atmosphere. They floated for half a second before Morty pulled a large lever set in between the two fabric seats. The ship shuddered for a moment then shot forward towards its preprogramed coordinates. In less than 30 seconds they were floating just out of reach of a large Federation station.

“Squanchin’ Federation, even their prisons are shiny and chrome,” Squanchy griped. Morty ignored him while he activated both the ships cloaker and his own. There was no way to check if the biometric cloaker was working without wasting valuable time, so he had to hope it was working perfectly. Not that he hadn’t already tested it a billion and one times, but still, Murphy’s Law and all that.

“G-get in the back and put those cuffs on Squanchy, I-I’m g-going to open the transmission,” he snapped, anxiety getting the better of him. Morty mindlessly fingered the plasma pistols hidden under his Federation jacket. Squanchy didn’t reply, instead doing as the man had told him and squeezing his way into the back seat.

Morty took a deep breath as his finger hovered over the ON switch on the radio. If he just pressed down two inches this would start. There’d be no going back, and no starting over. This was there one and only chance at getting Rick out. He exhaled and depressed the button.

“This is Alpha-theta-three-six reporting in with a prisoner transport,” Morty clipped out. The codes were, of course, stolen from a ship that had been shot down in the Zeta-36 area not long ago. Hopefully the Federation hadn’t done a fleet check-in recently. The transmitter crackled to life.

“Alpha-theta-three-six, you are late for report by two days, explain yourself,” a gravely alien voice grated out. Morty reflexively stiffened before reminding himself to keep up a confident persona. So far so good, he just had to keep himself from stuttering too badly.

Another deep breath. “There was a delay with the prisoner’s paperwork. W-we were delayed, it’s all in my report.”

Silence greeted him while the alien assumedly checked the electronic reporting server. Morty had made sure that a fake report on Squanchy’s capture and subsequently delayed transfer would appear.

“Alright Alpha-theta-three-six, you’re clear to dock, landing bay fifteen. Prepare your prisoner for processing,” the alien droned. Morty didn’t allow himself to relax as he piloted the ship into the bay, making sure to act as professional as the other Federation ships that milled about the dock.

Landing softly in his assigned bay Morty hopped out of the drivers seat. He was relived to see other humanoids walking around, he wouldn’t stand out as much. Roughly he yanked open the back hatch and pulled Squanchy out, silently apologizing for the rough treatment. They had t make this believable.

He walked them between the ships, hand poised on one of his pistols in an authoritative manner. Underneath his uniform he was sweating, the tension mounting with each passing second. 10 less seconds until they freed Rick, 20, 30.

“Alpha-theta-three-six, back from patrol with a prisoner for transport,” Morty spoke into the microphone beside the landing dock entrance. A tiny mechanical whooshing sound signaled the opening of a cylindrical hole at chest height.

“Please insert your dominant appendage into the genetic tester. If you do not have appendages, please wait for assistance,” the automated system instructed. Morty mentally crossed his fingers and stuck his right pointer into the machine.

“Scanning, please do not remove appendage from the tester. Please remember that impersonating a Federation officer is a capitol offence.”

“D-don’t I know it…” Morty mumbled to Squanchy. The cat shrugged.

Three beeps sounded off and Morty pulled his finger back. “Scanning complete, please move through the door alpha-theta-six-three.”

Trying to seem nonchalant, Morty tugged Squanchy by the cuffs through the doorway and into the processing room beyond. Desks manned by Gromflomites in uniform lined both sides with long, straight lines of soldiers and prisoners in front of each. Morty chose one at random.

The humanoid alien in front of him turned around and glanced down at him. It’s skin was grey and it’s body androgynous. It’s limbs were mostly normal, if not a little on the long side, and it’s face was only slightly rounder than the average human.

“I have not seen you here before,” the alien said, eyeing the man in front of him. “Are you Earth-clan?”

Keep is cool Morty told himself. “Yes, I-I’m new. Just doing a prisoner transfer, you know?”

“Mmmm,” the alien assented, turning back to face the desk. It didn’t speak again as they slowly moved closer and closer to the clerk. Minutes ticked past and Morty began to sweat with anticipation and adrenalin. He tried to keep a cool façade as he waited, hoping that he was succeeding.

“State your purpose,” the desk Gromflomite said without looking up at him.

“Prisoner transfer from the Zeta sector,” he replied. “Headed to the Max. Sec. unit of this station.” At that the Gromflomite looked up.

“Max. Sec? What’s the prisoner ID?”

Morty reached into his jacket and pulled out the fake ID papers for Squanchy. They hadn’t lied about his identity. The fact that he was a known terrorist worked in the favor; when he escaped the ensuing rush would be greater than for a small-time crook.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me—you’re a rookie right?” the bug-man asks, rolling his eyes. “You don’t process Max Sec. prisoners through the front door! Head down to Special Processing, floor 74, and for fucks sake keep an eye on him.”

Morty tried to look sheepish, which wasn’t too hard for him, and bobbed his head. Grabbing Squanchy and trying to avoid the stares of the aliens around him he stepped up to the elevators at the back and pressed the large call button.

“So far so good,” Squanchy breathed, careful to keep his voice below a whisper. Morty nodded slightly as he entered the elevator and mashed the 74 button. Another scanner popped open and prompted him to insert an appendage.

They rode the elevator up in silence, wary of Federation security. Everything was going as planned so far, but the next steps were the hardest. After handing Squanchy over, Morty had to talk his way into the Max Sec. prison cells and locate Rick. After that they both had to make their way back to the ship and out into space, and that way the tricky part.

The elevator dinged and the doors clanked open on the 63rd floor. A brown stern brown-haired woman stepped into the elevator, her black stiletto heels clicking against the floor. Her Federation uniform was pristine, and the shiny metal stripes of a Lieutenant General glinting in the artificial light. Morty quickly saluted and dipped his head, using his cap to hide his face. The woman, and she did appear to be a human woman, didn’t spare him a glance.

They rode together to the 74th floor. She stepped out first and strode briskly past security and down the hall, a trail of saluting aliens in her wake. Morty tired to seem confident in her wake and walked with authority up to the security desk.

“I have a Max Sec. prisoner for processing,” he said, pulling Squanchy up to the desk front.

The security alien, another Gromflomite, nodded. “We received a notice that prison S-578 would be arriving for processing.” It stuck its hand out for the paperwork, which Morty supplied. The bug-man gave each sheet a quick glance before waving another two guards over. “Take S-578 to a holding cell and prepare him for processing. Alpha-theta-six-three, your assistance is no longer required.”

Morty backed away from the desk while the two guards carted Squanchy off. “So, uh, off the record,” he started, “I hear you have that super-terrorist Rick Sanchez here.”

The desk Gromflomite looked around to make sure they were alone. “How do you know that rookie? No one is supposed to know about Sanchez.” Morty smiled internally; Gromflomite were known gossips.

“Oh uh, I heard rumors during training and, well, I’m a human so…” Morty scratched the back of his head, and shuffled his feat. “He’s a huge traitor you know? And I j-just wondered if he’s being—if he was getting w-what he deserves. I figured, since you p-probably see everything that goes on here, I’d ask you…”

Morty tried to look excited and eager to appeal to the bugs self-importance; when it sat up straighter and pushed its thorax out. “Well yeah, I’ve seen him. He’s gotta go through this security gate whenever they take him out for questioning.”

“Do you think I could see him?” Morty blurted strategically, playing the part of the excited rookie.

The bug looked around again. “I don’t know man, we aren’t supposed to let—” despite what it said it waved Morty closer through the security gate. Quietly it flipped the booth to maintenance mode and stepped out beside him.

“It’s time for my break anyways, follow me kid.”

Morty tried not to laugh in the aliens face. This was almost too easy, could it really be this simple? He followed the bug-man as he led him through the final security doors and onto a platform. Discreetly, he reached into his back pocket and activated the tiny EMP device therein. He had to assume it would work, since it was completely silent.

“We have the baddest of the bad locked up here. They usually spend 24/7 chained up, we don’t like to take any chances.” Says the guy who left the front door unguarded Morty thought. “But Sanchez isn’t in the main area.”

He’d expected as much but knew he had to keep up the act. “Wh-why? Where is he then?” The Gromflomite flicked a switch on the platform and it began moving forward down the tunnel. After a few seconds they reached the main room and Morty was honestly awestruck. Prisoners strapped into hanging monoliths lined the walls and, despite the utterly unfathomable number of captives, it was completely silent save for background mechanical noise.

“He’s in Blackout, in the center of the cellblock. No light, no sound, no escape.”

Morty swallowed and his eyes widened without him having to try. He’d been expecting torture and confinement, but not complete sensory deprivation. He hoped Rick had been able to keep it together.

The platform shuddered to a stop in the center of the room. A solid click announced the platform’s connection to the center pillar, and the Gromflomite strode out in front.

“This way kid, we only have a few minutes so hurry up,” it murmured, looking nervous. Morty scuttled behind it, feeling adrenaline pump through his body. Just a few more seconds and he’d get Rick out of here, just a few seconds.

The bug stopped in front of one of the nondescript metal doors. Each had a slat in front , but no handle or window. It leaned down to the slat and propped it open for Morty to look through. “In here, just take a peak and then we’ll get out of here, OK?”

Nodding Morty bent down to the slat and pressed his face against the cold door. There was no light in the cell, save from the open slat, and all he could see was darkness.

“I can’t see m-man, you sure this is the right one?” he stuttered. The bug made an annoyed noise and pushed him out of the way.

“You’re just not looking hard enough kid,” it griped, leading down itself to peer through. Quickly, before the bug got back up he whipped his arm into his uniform’s interior breast pocket and pull out his gun. He’d been lucky when the alien put the security booth into maintenance mode, meaning he didn’t have to go through the body scanner.

Four years ago Morty Smith would have hesitated before pulling the trigger. A year ago, he might have felt bad as the alien bug jolted, it’s eyes rolling back as blood seeped from the bullet wound in its head. As of that moment however, all Morty felt was satisfaction.

“F-f-fucking idiot,” he scoffed, rolling the body away from the door and patting it down for the bugs access card. He found it and swiftly moved to the cell door that was the only thing left between him and his grandfather. One decisive motion later the pass scanner on the wall beeped and the door began to open. Morty held his breath.

The door moved slowly, only revealing an inch at a time. Gradually Morty could see a grey-skinned foot, then an orange jumpsuit covered leg. More and more of Rick was revealed and Morty felt excitement and adrenaline creeping into his chest. Running forward he kneeled down on the ground beside his grandpa, who was laying prone on the floor.

“Rick, R-Rick it’s me. I-it’s Morty. G-g-get up we have to get out of here ASAP.” Morty was shaking Ricks shoulder, but the old scientist didn’t move. Icy cold dread speared through the young man’s chest. His fingers found a bony—too bony—wrist and checked for a pulse; it was faint but there. He rolled Rick over on his side but the older man made no movements. Morty felt himself panicking and pushed the rising feelings down.

“O-OK Rick, we’re gonna get o-out of here. I’ll lift—I’ll carry you if I have to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Morty was in the middle of lifting his much too light grandfather when the blare of alarms pierced his eardrums. It was the single most screechingly blaring sound he’d every heard in his life, and he couldn’t have been happier to be hearing it now.

“PRISONER ON THE LOOSE. ALL UNITS REPORT TO MAX SEC SCREENING IMMEDIATELY,” a robotic voice demanded over the station-wide intercom. Squanchy was providing the distraction.

“Tha-that’s Squanchy R-Rick. He’s gonna l-lead them away from us and give us time to get—give us time to escape.” Rick didn’t respond; his eyes were still closed. Morty didn’t let that faze him as he hoisted his grandpa in a fireman’s carry. He hoped Squanchy’s ruckus was enough to distract from the fact that the Max Sec cameras had been EMP’d, at least for a little while. Rick was light over his shoulder, barely more than a passing pressure.

“We have to-to move Rick, so don’t—try not to fall off alright?” He adjusted his uniform so he could reach his gun holster just in case. Without so much as a glance back at the corpse Morty took off down the hall back the way he and the alien had come. Just like before there were no guards—the prison relying on cameras and robots—so they could make their way out without worrying about being caught.

They reached the elevator platform without trouble. Morty shifted Rick over his shoulder and punched in the same code he’d seen the alien enter, and not a moment later the platform began to move. It proceeded with a pace so slow that Morty felt he could take the time to set Rick down and get a good look at him. The older man was as limp as a rag doll, and about as alive-looking. His skin looked paper-thin it as so white, and there were huge dark bags underneath each eye socket. Morty could tell he’d lost weight, even under the prison jumpsuit, and considering how lanky Rick had been before…

“S-shit Rick, what’d they do to y-you,” he mumbled, taking his grandfather's pulse again. It was still sluggish and faint, dangerously so. The teen laid a gentle hand on his grandpa’s shoulder and gave it a delicate but firm shake, hoping Rick would wake up so he wouldn’t have to carry him.

“Come on man, wa-wake up s-s-so I don’t have to carry yo-your bony ass.” He started to shake harder, more determined to wake the man up. He was about to stop, not wanting to hurt Rick, when he heard the faintest of sounds.

“Guh…” Morty immediately stopped jostling his grandpa and instead held his shoulders firmly, holding him upright. Rick twitched a tiny amount, barely an inch, but it was something.

“That’s it, th-that’s it Rick, time to wake up. Squanchy and I, we’ve come to—we’ve rescued you and you’re sleeping through th-the whole damn thing!” Morty chided. Rick squirmed again and, miraculously, opened his eyes to squint in the harsh light of the elevator platform.

“Mmmm?” Rick wheezed. Immediately he started coughing, the dry hacking sound was brutal. The moving platform underneath them came to a shuddering halt and Morty quickly checked the perimeter.

“Can you walk Rick? C-can you even hear m-m-me?” he asked. The Max Sec wing was still deserted; Squanchy was doing his job perfectly.

Rick apparently could hear him, because once his coughing had subsided he made a few weak motions with his legs—like he was trying to stand. The scientist’s feet scrabbled lethargically against the platform floor, but he couldn’t seem to coordinate himself enough to stand. Morty suspected they’d been drugging him.

“N-Nevermind, I’ll keep—I’ll just carry you.” This time he leaned down facing away from Rick. “Think you can at l-least hold on to my—on to my back? I m-might have to sh-shoot some assholes on the w-way out of here.”

Again Rick made no outward sign of having heard Morty, but he did shakily reach out and grasp onto the younger’s shoulders. Morty shifted the old man on his back and stood up, noting he was tall enough that even with his grandfathers body hanging limp, Rick’s feet were barely scraping the floor. The teen hoisted Ricks legs up around his waist—he counted himself lucky that they stayed—and headed forward.

They reached the security check without problem. Morty was starting to get suspicious about how easy this entire process was when he heard the skittering footsteps of alien feet marching down the hall.

“Fuck,” Morty hissed. They’re only way forward was blocked by the oncoming Groflomites; they’d have to hide. He picked up the pace and dropped to the floor, letting Rick down as gently as possible. He had just enough time to cram them both under the security desk before the footsteps were upon them.

“The gate’s unmanned, who was supposed the be on shift?” one of them barked. There were murmurs throughout the group, but no one answered. Morty clenched his gun tighter and prepared for one of the bugs to investigate the post. He knew he could take out two or three of the aliens, but not an entire squad. A quick glance to his left showed that Rick, still only semi-conscious, was beginning to shift and move around.

A few of the more colorful alien-swears Morty had learned skimmed through his mind. Of course Rick would choose now to wake up, and not when he’d been hauling his skinny ass through the halls. Too busy fuming, Morty failed to notice the tiny, almost inaudible sounds Rick had begun to make.

“Hey, I heard something,” the bug who’d spoken before announced. Morty had to stop himself from jolting in surprise and pulling the trigger. Expertly tossing his gun to his right hand, he used his left to cover Rick’s mouth. This made the scientist squirm more, but stopped the sound well enough. At least I hope so… the teen thought.

Seconds ticked past, and each brought the two closer to being recaptured. Taking another glance over at Rick, Morty knew he couldn’t let that happen, so he quietly laid his gun down and reached towards the back of his belt. He’d hidden some micro-explosives there, too tiny to be picked up by any weapons scanners, but big enough to blow up a good chunk of the station. Both he and Squanchy had agreed that, if it came down to it, it was better to destroy the prison than become an inmate. Morty grasped the explosive in one hand and Rick in the other while trying not to think about the consequences of what he was doing, then leapt up to greet the squad of Groflomites in front of the security post.

The bugs immediately went for their guns, but stopped when he brandished the small, circular explosive. “Don’t f-fucking move insectoid f-freaks. This thing had e-enough juice in it to blow this prison sky high.” That got the bug-men to stop in their tracks. Again, the one in front, their captain most likely, took charge.

“Stand down human, don’t do anything… is that Prisoner 137-65?” The tension was palpable. They knew who Rick was, and could probably figure out who Morty was.

“He won’t do anything with that. Why would he go through the trouble to break him out just to blow him up?” another laughed harshly. Morty glared and tightened his grip on the bomb; the squad noticed and some looked afraid.

“B-b-better than handing him back o-over to you Federation shitheads.” Beside him Rick was moving around again, squirming like he was trying to stand on his own. Morty let him, knowing that they’d have a better chance of making it out alive if Rick could walk. “N-now drop the f-fucking guns and don’t move.”

The soldiers looked to their captain, who was staring Morty in the eyes; Morty stared back, dead serious in his threats. The captain must have seen his resolve because he took a step back and motioned for his troops to do the same. One by one they dropped their guns and backed up away from the two humans. Morty had to stop himself from sighing in relief.

“N-n-now don’t move, don’t follow us.” He pulled and pushed Rick towards the elevator that would take them to the lobby and spaceship hanger. He knew that the second the elevator doors closed the soldiers would report Rick’s escape, so they had to hurry. Morty mashed the main floor button and kept eye contact with the bug captain as the doors slide closed. When they were finally safe behind steel doors, he allowed himself to deflate slightly.

The silence in the elevator was broken by Rick’s low mumbling. None of the sounds he made sounded like any language Morty knew, and the teen was starting to fear for his grandfather’s sanity. “Rick? A-are you with me?” So much for not sounding like a stuttering idiot.

“Mor—?” The elder wheezed. Morty sighed. At least Rick at least knew who he was.

“Ye-yeah Rick it’s me, it’s Morty. We-we’re gonna get you out of h-here alright?” Morty thought Rick was zoning out on him again, but Rick looked up at him and seemed to acknowledge that Morty was talking. “I n-need you to walk on your own, ok? I-I’ll give you a gun and you can help—you can fight back, ok m-man?” Rick nodded and held out an unsteady hand. The shaky way he held the gun sent shivers of apprehension through Morty, but he ignored it. They were only 10 floors from the lobby.

“I-I’ll go first ok Rick? Just follow me,” the teen pressured. He’d hoped to find Rick healthy and like his normal self, not like a zombie. He’d thought Rick could take charge, like he’d done when Morty was younger, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“O—OK,” Rick answered, staring down at the gun with a clouded intensity. It was the first time he’d actually made sense since leaving the cell. Morty couldn’t imagine what had happened in the last four years that made his snarky, acerbic grandfather into this practically mute mess.

The elevator slide to a halt as the floor indicator above the door switched to the lobby symbol. They were so close to getting out. Whatever was beyond these doors would decide if they were free, or dead.

When he’d first arrived, the lobby area had been full of aliens and Federation workers. Now it was completely empty, evacuated due to the escaped prisoner. Morty and Squanchy had counted on an evacuation to clear the way, and the teen was relived that they’d been right to. Morty whipped his head around, left, right, behind, as he and Rick crossed the shiny, chrome room as quickly as the older could manage. The teen kept one hand in his jacket, on the micro-explosive. There was a good chance he’d have to threaten to use it again.

Suddenly, just as they reached the door to the ship bay, another incredibly loud siren went off, piercing the imposing silence that had covered the floor since their arrival. Morty jumped and swung around wildly, looking for soldiers. There were none, —yet—but there would be soon. His eyes continued to dart around as he prepared to hack the bay door open, and he realized that Rick was nowhere to be seen.

“Grandpa Rick? Rick?” he called, fear seeping into his voice. Morty had only taken his eyes off him for a second, where had he gone? Why would he leave when they were so close to escaping?

“RICK!” Morty shouted above the shrieking siren, but he heard nothing in return. “Shit shit shit, Rick where did you f-fucking go?”

For the second time that day, Morty heard the stamping of insectoid feet rushing into the room, thought this time there was more than just a squad. He knew that if he didn’t find cover there’d be no time to even show off the micro-explosive before they opened fire. Humans, in the eyes of the Federation, were useless scum, hardly worth of detaining—Rick being the exception.

The only safe space he could see was one of the reception desks. It looked like it was made of out metal, and was bolted to the floor. Morty dashed to the desk and went to duck under when he realized the space was already taken. “Jesus C-Christ Rick, what are you doing here?”

His grandfather, who was curled up in a ball with his hands covering his ears, eyes shut, already filled the space. If he’d had more time Morty would have been shocked to see his normally tough grandfather cowering. As it was, he had just enough time to shove Rick deeper under the desk so the he could squeeze himself into cover. The clatter of feet, armor, and guns came to a restless halt near the elevators.

“Intruder! Come out with your hands up and you will not be harmed,” a female voice, possibly human, called out. Morty almost laughed.

“Won’t be h-harmed? Th-th-the second I stand up y-you’ll blow m-me away,” he shouted back. He noticed that when the woman had started speaking, Rick went still. “A-and what about Rick? I j-j-just let you guys lock him back up in that cel—in that prison?”

The woman’s voice was hard and emotionless. It sent eerie shivers down Morty’s spine; something wasn’t right with her. Here they were in the middle of a warzone and she sounded as calm and collect as if they were sipping tea on the patio.

“Prisoner 137-65 will be returned to his cell, he has committed numerous crimes against he Federation. Crimes that you, Morty Smith, seem intent on repeating.” There was a tiny hint of smugness in her voice now. She knew who Morty was, what he’d been doing.

“It is clear, Mr. Smith, that nothing will stop you from removing Prisoner 137-65 from our custody, unless we neutralize you. You have rejected my offer of a peaceful reconciliation; we will now open fire on your location.”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit, Morty cursed, scrambling to arm the micro explosive. It looked like this had all been for nothing, that in the end it would be him and not the Federation who would end Rick’s life. Funny, he’d always imagined Rick living to a ripe old age just to spite them with his crotchety personality.

Just as his thumb grazed over the detonator an Earth-shattering (space-shattering?) explosion ripped through the prison. Under the desk Morty couldn’t see the damage, but he heard enough to know that the soldiers were panicking. Smaller, less intense explosions kept going off, and Morty realized this was probably his only chance.

“C-come on Rick, get up. We’ve gotta—we’ve gotta take them out while we can, while they’re distracted.” Rick looked even more shaken up than before and Morty wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get Rick to move. “Aw jeeze Rick, get up!”

Once again Rick listened to the direct command, hastily adjusting his gun and crawling out from under the desk. He took a knee beside Morty and peaked over the desk. They both lined up their shots and began to fire on shot after the other, killing the bug-men while they were confused. There were only twenty or so, plus the woman who’d been speaking—fewer than Morty had thought. She stood off to the side, pistol drawn, her Commanders uniform dirty with debris.

“Stop you idiots, you’re letting them pick you off like flies! Reform your ranks, take aim!” she screamed at the bugs. Rick and Morty had taken out 5 by that point, and the remaining 15 were panicked past the point of receiving orders.

The teen wasn’t going to question the explosion; it may have saved their asses. He picked off another two soldiers as another huge explosion sounded. This time the entire prison shifted as if whatever thrusters had been keeping it upright were shutting down. They needed to move, now.

“Rick, cover me. I’m going to open the door and get us o-out of here.” Morty really hoped that Rick was aware enough to not get him shot to death, but he didn’t have time to check. Instead he ran to the door and began hacking the security, something he’d learned for this exact situation. He’d practiced on similar Federation tech. so many times that he had the door open in less than 3 minutes.

“I-it’s open, Rick let’s move!” he shouted. Rick followed after him, still firing at the few soldiers left and the commander. He navigated them to where he’d parked the ship, leaving their defenses to Rick. Any doubts he’d had about the older mans capabilities were wiped away as Rick took down two soldiers who jumped out in front of them as they ran.

When they reached the ship, Squanchy was there. He was a bit roughed up, and one of his ears looked more tattered than normal, but he was alive. Morty could have almost hugged the alien cat, if they weren’t still running for their lives. The ship was already started and the door was open, waiting for them to jump in.

“Come on kid, squanch in and get us out of here,” Squanchy hissed, nervous eyes darting around. Morty did so and held out a hand for Rick, who gingerly made his way into the back seat.

“Were t-those explosions you Squanchy?” Morty asked as he fired up the forward thrusters and flew them towards the exit. The cat-man grinned maliciously.

“Threw my explosive down a Jefferies Tube while they were squanching me. Then I lost them in the chaos,” he answered as he turned back in his seat to look at Rick. “Hey man, you squanchin’ OK?” Rick was staring at the gun still in his hands, breathing heavily. Squanchy frowned in concern. “Rick, you OK?”

Morty spared a glance back at the two while he prepared the final part of the plan. They’d need to fire a blast at the locked-down dock doors to create a hold big enough to fly through. “He’s been like that since I found h-him. He c-couldn’t even walk when I got to him.”

“Squanch man…” Squanchy swore. Morty didn’t have time to explained more as he readied the missiles and took aim at the doors.

“Hold on t-t-tight guys.” He punched the fire button and the missiles launched, obliterating the doors and any surrounding ships. Oh well, a little excess never hurt anyone.

Morty laughed out loud as they sped off into open space. It only took a few second for the dark-matter engine to charge up, and within a few second of pressing it they were floating just outside the atmosphere of Zeta-36. “We-we made it. Rick we made it!”

Squanchy was jumping in his seat, earlier concern forgotten, as Morty pulled a bottle of celebratory booze from underneath his seat. He cracked it open, took a long pull, and turned back to Rick.

“H-hey Rick, we made it out. You’re safe now. You—you want some of this?” He sloshed the bottle in the old mans direction, but Rick didn’t look up. Instead, he lifted his gun up in front of his face, seemingly inspecting it carefully.

“What’s up Grandpa Ri—” Morty choked on the end of his sentence as Rick turned the gun on himself, right between his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

“Squanchin’ hell Rick!” Squanchy screeched, diving for the gun. It wasn’t necessary though, because the laser pistol had clicked uselessly in Rick’s hand; out of ammo.

“N-n-no, sh-shi-shit,” Rick mumbled, dropping the gun onto the ship floor. Morty was frozen, shocked beyond belief. “Never s-s-safe, n-n-never out.” The teen realized that he’d been stupid, giving Rick a gun when he’d obviously been tortured for years. But he just though… he thought Rick was indestructible, like he’d always been. Evidently, he’d been wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Land the ship, get inside. Land the Ship, get inside, Morty thought to himself as Squanchy took care of Rick in the back seat. His grandfather had, after dropping the gun, descended into hysterical gibbering. Morty wanted to get them landed as soon as possible so they could help Rick. Something wasn’t right, aside from the obvious. Rick wasn't the most stable person Morty knew—far from it—but he’d never seen the man just break down like this before.

“S-Squanchy, I need you to calm h-him d-d-d-down OK? Something’s n—there’s something wrong with him. I-I-I think they drugged h-him or something.” Landing the ship was a well-practised effort for Morty, but he couldn’t help but be a little distracted.

“I’m squanchin’ trying kid, but he won't stop moving around. He’s squanched up man, he’d be better dead than—” The glare Morty sent over the middle console was enough to stop that train of thought.

The ship hit a rough patch of turbulence and the teen scrambled to keep them steady. “They did something to h-him Squanchy, s-s-something to mess u-up his head.” He wouldn’t accept that Rick was crazy… that Rick was gone…

The ship rocked side to side, much like Morty’s thoughts, and Squanchy swore as Rick wriggled from his furry grasp and onto the back seat floor. “Whatever you squanch kid, just fly the goddam ship. I better not have almost squanched it to save a crazy old man…”

Morty didn’t respond, but inside he was fuming. Squanchy had always been a little difficult to deal with, and it was obvious he was more of a follower than a leader but wasn’t Rick his friend? He’d gone along with Morty’s plan, hell they’d been travelling and living together for a year, would he really abandon Rick because of all this?

It didn’t take long to bring the ship down after they’d cleared the rough patch. Ships coming and going weren’t a huge deal in Zeta-36; so as long as he turfed the Federation uniform before he got out they’d be fine. No one would look twice at Rick in his prison uniform, most people on Zeta-36 didn’t give a damn about what anyone else was doing as long as they kept to themselves or had some sort of desirable service to offer. Morty and Squanchy fell into the latter category.

Still, the less attention they garnered the better, so Morty and Squanchy hustled a groggy Rick in through the back door of the house. He was silent now, worryingly compliant as they led him past the door to the warehouse section, through the kitchen, and into the living room. Morty had hoped that maybe Rick would react to the house, seeing as it used to be his, but there was no recognition in his grandfather's eyes. Wordlessly they guided him to the shabby couch and sat him down. Almost instantly Rick fell to his side and drew up his knees; the same position Morty had found him in when he’d opened the cell in the prison.

“Shouldn’t we squanch him to a bed? He looks about ready to pass out,” Squanchy asked. Morty was busy flicking on the living room lights.

“Can y-you set up that reading lamp by the couch Squanchy? The one I have in my bedroom closet. O-oh and grab the big black bag by my b-b-bed, it has all the medical supplies,” Morty asked, ignoring Squanchy’s question. He really didn't want to keep moving Rick around, at least, not more than they needed to. Squanchy sighed and left to do as he’d asked.

“O-OK now Rick, I n-n-need to get this j-jumpsuit off you. Come on, help me out h-here man!” Rick didn’t fight him as he pulled and twisted the prison uniform off, but he didn’t exactly help either. The scientist was completely limp as he let Morty remove his coverings, save for the occasional twitch or shiver. His skin was paler than it had been four years ago, something that shocked Morty, and he could finally confirm that Rick was indeed significantly skinnier. It didn’t take long for the evidence of Rick’s years in captivity to be revealed.

Starting from the top notch of his clavicle straight down to his fifth or sixth rib, there was a long surgical-esque slash. It was similar to a scar left over from heart surgery but less neat. Around it there were other old injuries, small burns, slashes, and discolorations. Eyes wide, Morty unzipped the jumpsuit fully, expecting more signs of torture. He was shocked to see Rick’s stomach, slightly distended, with sickly mottled bruises shaped suspiciously like boot heels on either side.

“Je-Jesus Christ Rick,” Morty breathed. He wasn’t equipped for this. They’d been expecting cuts and bruises sure, but not drugging and malnutrition this severe. He realised, for the first time, that though he’d planned every aspect of the prison break, he’d completely ignored what came after.

The rest of the uniform came off his grandfather's battered frame. Great, now I have a skinny, naked old guy on my couch, Morty thought wryly. Squanchy, dragging the reading lamp, the duffle bag, and the blanket from Morty’s bed, came back into the living room and caught the look on the teens face.

“What’s the damaged kid? Rick going to squanch it?” He tossed the bag and blanket by the couch and plugged the reading lamp in near the side table. Morty draped the blanket over RIck’s lower half and sighed.

“I-I don’t know what to do about half of t-this Squanchy. It looks like he—like someone sliced his ribcage open and didn’t l-let it heal. He’s so f-fucking starved his stomach is bulging. W—we’re equipped for cuts and broken bones, not this s-shit."

Squanchy skittered over to perch beside Morty. “His arm is squached up too, look here.” He pointed a clawed finger to Rick’s left forearm. “It was broken and nobody squanched it right, so it’s healed funny.” The cat man continued to eye him up and down. “It’ll need to be rebroken and set."

Morty’s stomach dropped. “Jeeze man, I-I can’t do that shit."

“If we don’t he won’t be able to squanch that arm well, maybe not at all.” Squanchy shrugged. “It’s your call kid, I don’t know squanch about medical crap."

“N-neither do I!” Morty shouted. He gripped the edge of the blanket covering Rick with a white-knuckle grasp. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go, he didn’t know how to handle this stuff. “We need a d-doctor, a real one that’ll work for c-cheap and stay quite."

On the couch, Rick started squirming and murmuring under his breath. HIs eyes were closed and he looked like he was in pain. Morty sighed again and pulled the blanket up over the older’s chest. “I-I used m-most of our savings on equipment for the b-breakout. St-stuff we didn’t even f-fucking use!” Shame and frustration were churning in an acidic cocktail in his gut.

“Don’t squanch it kid. There’s that guy in town, squanches he’s a doctor. I’ll go get him; we can always wreck his shit if he tried to squanch us,” Squanchy offered, remembering—not for the first time—that Morty was barely more than a kid. He’d stepped up, took control from the start, and Squanchy had let himself forget that at least in human terms, Morty really was barely an adult.

“O-OK Squanchy. I’ll keep an eye on Rick. M-m-maybe he’ll wake up.” Morty hoped he wouldn’t. Sleeping Rick was easier to handle than awake, self-destructive Rick. The cat man nodded and slunk out of the house, thinly veiled exhaustion radiating from his slumped shoulders. He had, after all, spent the morning giving those soldiers the runaround. “J-just hurry OK?"

* * *

 

Morty knew that the doctor, or at least the guy who had enough medical supplies to be called a doctor, was over an hour’s walk away. Normally he would have given Squanchy the keys to the ship, but seeing as they had just used it to break Rick out of prison… well, it was safe to say they wouldn’t be out and about in it anytime soon.

Luckily, despite the long wait, Rick hadn’t actually woken up. A few times he shifted, groaning and mumbling. Morty had held his breath each time, simultaneously hoping the old man would both wake up and stay asleep.This cycle had repeated itself a handful of times before the younger got tired of sitting on the floor beside their couch and stood up to stretch. He couldn’t leave, not after what happened on the ship, so instead he began pacing. It was a habit picked up from his mom who, after a fight, would pace back and forth in the living room, a glass of wine clutched to her chest. He found it helped him think and kept him from getting stuck on certain ideas.

Right now he was trying to work through the last 24 hours. First, they’d gotten Rick out of space jail. Morty’s plan had gone off nearly perfectly and everything had worked out fine. They’d even managed to take out a bunch of Federation soldiers.

The second half of that, however, was that if the prison-ship had gone down—and he was pretty sure it had—then he was now responsible for hundreds, if not thousands of deaths. Guards, employees, visitors, and prisoners. No more than a handful could have possibly escaped the icy vacuum of space once the prison began exploding. Morty picked up the speed of his pacing, trying to keep on track.

Second, Rick wasn’t in good shape. He’d seemed… mostly alright when they were escaping, hell, he’d even managed to kill a few guards on the way out. But after what had happened on the ship, and the physical evidence laying not 5 feet from him, Morty couldn’t deny that there were more than a couple things wrong with his Grandfather.

Rick had never been the most stable individual, but he’d never outright tried to kill himself in front of Morty. At 14 he’d been naive enough to ignore his grandfather’s behaviours, but he was older now. Morty didn’t know for sure, but the had the feeling this sort of thing wasn’t new to Rick. Still, the older man had seemed completely out of it, despite even, and that went against everything the teen associated with him.

Third, and finally, he had no idea what to do now. HIs plan had ended at getting Rick out of prison, something he’d been working on for a full year. He had, somewhat stupidly, thought that this would be the end of it and they’d good back to adventuring and getting up to wacky shenanigans. That maybe they could go home.

Morty stopped pacing at the thought of home. It wasn’t a subject he liked to dwell on. He’d purposefully avoided news about Earth since leaving; he assumed things hadn’t gotten any better. His family was another matter entirely, and he refused to think about what they thought about him after the mess he’d left behind.

Rick made a small noise in his sleep which pulled Morty from his thoughts. There was no sense dwelling on the past, there were more important things going on in the present. Morty would deal with this now as best he could and the rest could come later.

* * *

 

It wasn’t long after that he heard the front door swing open and two distinctly different sets of footsteps cross the threshold. Squanchy’s were light and quick, and the other set were heavy. Hopefully, they belonged to the doctor and not some Federation asshole or disgruntled customer.

“Through there, he’d laid up on the squanch,” Squanchy instructed. Morty eyed the doctor with suspicion as he walked into the living room. He was a bipedal, quad-armed alien (Morty was glad he was at least familiar with the doctor’s species and could tell he was a he) from a planet not too far from Earth. His skin was nearly translucent and the orange veins underneath pulsed with a steady beat. He also towered over Morty, his head only inches from the roof, but his demeanour was that of someone willing to help. Morty relaxed a tiny amount.

“Greetings, Earthling. I am R’mulh,” the alien extended two of his hands, one from each side, and shook Morty’s, “this is the patient?"

“Y-yeah, h-he’s my Grandpa,” Morty stuttered. R’mulh released his hand and set down his bag. “He’d b-b-been away for a l-long time, and I-I don’t know what happened to h-him.” It wasn’t a total lie, at least.

“You do not need to lie to me, Morty Smith. Rick Sanchez is well known throughout the galaxy, as you well know. I was under the impression he was dead.” R’mulh motioned for Morty to move aside. He was reluctant to just hand Rick over to someone, but he knew he had no choice.

“N-no, they kept him lock up. I-I think they tortured him.” Morty swallowed hard as the alien doctor began removing equipment from his bag. There was regular stuff, like gauze and bandages, and strange things like syringes full of unfamiliar liquids and glowing crystals.

R’mulh pulled the blanket off Rick and surveyed the damage as the old man shivered. “Yes, I believe you are correct. See the inside of his elbow.” The doctor pointed with one of his hands while the others continued to pull stuff out of the bag. “There are puncture wounds, they were most likely drugging him. I have heard of Federation interrogation techniques, but I have never seen the outcome."

The alien doctor began his examination. He was silent as he took Rick’s blood pressure and listened to his pulse and breathing. Each wound, healed or not, was inspected carefully. Morty was equally quiet, letting the doctor do his thing. Squanchy hovered in the archway between the front hall and living room. Rick didn’t wake up through the examination. Morty wasn’t used to seeing his Grandfather so still and quiet and hoped he’d regain consciousness soon.

“Yes,” R’mulh started, and Morty jumped at the sudden sound. ”Your Grandfather has been through significant trauma. He has multiple wounds that were not correctly attended to, and he is extremely malnourished. I will have to take blood samples, which will also tell us what drugs they were giving him but,” he gestured to Rick’s face, “from the redness of the sclera and sallowness of the skin I assume they were keeping him sedated. I have also heard of drugs used to obtain information from a prisoner, and would not be surprised if they were used on him."

Morty listened carefully, trying to keep everything straight. “There is not much I can do for the skin-level burns and abrasions, but I will have to reset the broken bone. We should do this as soon as possible, now preferably, and I will return in a few days to check on his progress. Is this acceptable?"

“Y-yeah, I mean, I want him to g-get better ASAP.” Morty glanced around uncomfortably, unsure of how to bring up the topic. “He was pretty messed— pretty messed up when we found him. H-he tried to shoot himself."

The doctor didn’t show any outward signs of shock, but Morty wasn’t the best at picking up on alien body language. “That is not surprising, given the scope of the trauma. You must watch him constantly to prevent any unfortunate happenings.” Morty nodded and the alien continued. “If you are prepared we should begin resetting the injuries. Normally I would administer a sedative but his condition is so delicate that I would not advise it."

“Jeeze, won’t that—won’t it hurt like, a lot?” R’mulh nodded.

“Yes, you and your friend will have the hold him down while I re-break the bone. Then I will set it in a cast. I will be quick."

Morty sighed and looked to Squanchy, who had moved to the foot of the couch. “If it the-the only way. Squanchy, you hold Rick’s f-feet."

“Sure kid,” Squanchy agreed. He’d seen some raw shit in his time with Rick but had a feeling this was going to be one of the top three.

Morty braced himself and held down Rick’s torso. R’mulh gently grasped Rick’s left arm with two hands on each side of the break. He paused for a moment, then made a quick motion that was followed by a disgusting snap. Rick jerked awake and screamed, thrashing violently. Squanchy managed to hold his legs steady and Morty struggled to keep his upper half still. The doctor was quick, as promised, and he used two of his hands to hold the break while the other two grabbed a putty-like substance from the bag. He spread the substance over the break and held the arm in the right healing position. The putty dried fast, creating an almost instant cast.

“It is finished. The cast has a mild numbing agent in it, and the pain will lessen soon. I will take the blood now as well, and then I will leave you,” he said. Morty nodded as best he could while suppressing the last of Rick’s struggle. Focusing on calming the older man, he turned away from R’mulh as he took blood. Even after all those years of adventures and near-fatal injuries he was still a little squeamish.

“I will also set up an IV, and show you how to manage it. He is very malnourished and dehydrated, and I suspect he is fighting an infection of some sort.” Rick stopped struggling as the cast did its job and Morty let go of his arms and chest to watch how R’mulh administered the IV. It suddenly dawned on him that this was all going to be expensive, and neither he or Squanchy had the funds to pay for it.

Wounds dressed and IV in place, the alien doctor instructed Morty to dress Rick warmly and keep an eye on him. “I will be back in two days with the test results, though I will come sooner if you need."

“N-no, two days is f-fine. B-b-but about payment…” Morty trailed off. R’mulh waved two of his hands.

“Do not worry, Morty Smith. Your feline friend has explained the situation to me, and I believe we can come to an agreement. You are able to acquire substances not native to his planet, yes?” The doctor began packing up his equipment, each delicate hand moving independently to clean up quicker than Morty could follow.

“I-I guess.. wait are you a-asking me to smuggle you drugs?” Morty gaped confusedly. Squanchy, who had also let go of Rick and moved back out of the way didn’t look surprised.

“We can probably squanch you whatever you need Doc. Morty has contacts all over the squanch."

Morty nodded and the doctor stood to leave. “I am looking for medical supplies. I will provide you a list when we next meet. Until then.” The tall alien walked himself to the front door and left, leaving Morty and Squanchy alone with the unconscious Rick.

“Weird guy,” Squanchy mumbled.

“Y-yeah, but he seems ok,” Morty agreed. “He won’t t-turn us in?"

Squanchy shook his head. “Nah, he’s got a reputation for keeping his squanch shut.” The twitchy cat man circled around the couch almost nervously. Morty took up his spot beside Rick again, debating moving him to a bed or letting him rest more after the bone resetting. “So, where do we squanch from here kid?"

Morty didn’t answer, didn’t know how to answer. Instead, he stared at the man laying on their couch, the man he’d hoped would have the answer but who now could barely speak, in silence.


End file.
